Alaric's expression turned thoughtful, his eyes narrowing as he examined the sword. His hands moved with practiced ease as he took it from Cyan, fingers tracing the spine, the guard, the faint patterns buried beneath grime. He tilted it slightly, letting the forge light slide across the blade.
"…Hmph."
He clicked his tongue softly.
"Okay," Alaric said at last, voice slow and deliberate. "Since you used Soul Manicle, I'm guessing this sword answered you properly. But there's a problem." He rotated the blade once more, brow furrowing. "I wasn't the one who forged this."
Cyan blinked.
"…That's it?" he asked, confusion creeping into his voice. "That's the problem?"
Alaric glanced at him sideways, then shrugged, shoulders rolling beneath his apron. "Not really." He rested the sword across his palms. "You know how it works. A weapon grows stronger when its wielder recognizes its craftsman. Resonance. Trust. History." His eyes sharpened. "This blade doesn't carry my mark."
He exhaled through his nose.
"I found it under a river years ago. Was looking for shells—don't give me that look," he added quickly when Cyan raised a brow. "It was glowing faintly underwater. Took it out, dried it, appraised it." His lips twisted. "Nothing special showed up."
Alaric extended the sword back toward Cyan.
"You're free to take it. Just know this—I can't vouch for its quality. I didn't make it."
Cyan accepted the blade.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, something stirred in his chest.
A quiet ache.
His gaze softened as his thumb brushed over the faint, worn engravings along the flat of the blade. The patterns felt… familiar. Too familiar.
"A river, huh…" Cyan murmured.
His grip tightened slightly.
"That reminds me of my story," he thought, a bitter hint slipping into his expression. For a split second, his reflection warped across the blade's surface—older, broken, drowning.
He blinked it away.
"It's fine," Cyan said quietly, lifting his head. Determination flickered in his eyes. "I'll take it."
Alaric froze.
Then his face split into a wide grin.
"Well then," he said cheerfully, leaning forward onto the counter, "it's yours. You can leave it here, and I'll polish and sharpen it for you." He paused deliberately. "…For one silver coin."
Cyan stared at him.
Then sighed.
"You greedy old bastard," he muttered. "I thought a gift was supposed to be given in its prime. Or did that rule die with your hairline?"
Alaric burst out laughing, the sound booming through the forge. He slapped the counter, shoulders shaking. "Hell no! You want craftsmanship, you pay for craftsmanship!"
Cyan clicked his tongue.
"Fine." His voice hardened. "But if I don't like the result, I'm not paying a damn thing. Make it perfect."
Alaric's grin sharpened, eyes gleaming. "And if you do like it," he countered smoothly, "you pay extra."
Their gazes locked.
"…Deal," Cyan said.
He handed the sword back. Metal scraped softly against metal as Alaric set it aside with care.
As Cyan turned toward the door, he paused, inhaling the familiar scent of coal and steel. "I'll collect everything at dawn," he said. "After training."
Alaric waved him off without looking. "Try not to die, brat."
Cyan smirked as he stepped outside.
"Good luck, you little prick!" Alaric shouted after him, laughter echoing through the shop.
The afternoon sun bathed the village in gold as Cyan made his way down the street. Hammers rang, smoke curled lazily upward, and villagers moved with easy familiarity. He nodded to a few faces, his pace quickening.
"…Wasted too much time," he muttered.
By the time he reached the gate, the sun was already high.
The massive wooden structure loomed proudly, iron joints etched with vines and leaves. The royal emblem of Calonia—a soaring eagle—gleamed faintly at its center. Two knights stood guard, silver armor catching the light.
"Hey!" one called out.
Eryndor stepped forward, helmet tucked under his arm. "Heading out for training again?"
Cyan grinned. "Brutal training."
Both knights laughed.
Liora stepped closer, expression stern. "Don't get careless," she warned. "Be back before dawn."
"I will," Cyan replied, seriousness returning. "Thanks."
The gate creaked shut behind him.
The moment he reached the treeline, Cyan vanished.
Branches cracked softly as he leapt upward, sprinting across canopies with inhuman speed. Wind tore past his face, leaves blurring beneath him.
"I need to get stronger," he thought.
Twenty-five minutes later, he landed before a ruin.
The temple loomed—ancient, moss-covered, humming with quiet power.
As Cyan stepped inside, a chill ran down his spine.
"Why is it," he thought, staring at his palm as faint echoes followed his steps, "that this place never feels the same twice?"
The temple listened.
Inside the temple, training unfolded like a brutal symphony—every movement precise, merciless, and unrelenting.
Cyan's small frame trembled as he drove through one thousand push-ups, thin arms screaming under a burden no child should carry. Sweat soaked through his tunic, sliding down skin still too smooth, too young, before striking the stone beneath him. Pale afternoon light filtered through cracked pillars, illuminating clenched teeth and shaking elbows.
Incense burned somewhere above, sharp and biting, mixing with the raw scent of exertion.
No rest.
Sit-ups followed—hundreds upon hundreds. His narrow torso curled and straightened again and again, breath tearing from lungs that had not yet fully grown. Each exhale echoed harshly off the stone walls, far louder than his slight body suggested
Then squats.
His legs, long but still developing, not yet hardened by years, quivered violently, joints aching as if threatening to give out. Still, he didn't stop.
And finally—five hundred laps around the temple's perimeter.
His short stride struck the ground in relentless rhythm, boots slapping stone as wind ripped past his face. For a ten-year-old, the distance was monstrous. For Cyan, it was simply another line he refused to fall behind.
When he finished the final lap, his knees locked.
The sun crested the horizon.
Golden light spilled across the ruins, warming stone and skin alike. Birds greeted the morning with soft trills, leaves rustled gently, nature blissfully unaware that a child had just pushed his body beyond reason.
Cyan stood still, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls.
Training wasn't over.
Aura cultivation followed.
He sat cross-legged, legs thin beneath him, hands resting on his knees. His breathing slowed—careful, controlled, far too practiced for someone his age. He reached outward, sensing the ambient energy threaded through stone, air, and life itself.
It answered him.
Aura flowed inward, reinforcing muscle fibers still forming, strengthening bones not yet fully matured. Without it, this training would have shattered him long ago.
When he opened his eyes, clarity returned.
He ate quietly.
A crisp apple—its tart juice flooding his mouth—then cool water drawn from the temple's ancient fountain. The fountain's height forced him to stand on his toes slightly, fingers stretching as he drank.
His reflection wavered in the water.
Pale skin. Black hair falling messily over sharp eyes. A face that belonged to a boy—no matter how cold the gaze staring back.
For a moment, he glared at himself.
A stranger.
The memory came uninvited.
"You're not my mother."
The words struck harder than any blow. His jaw tightened, small fingers curling into fists beneath the water's surface.
He turned away.
The forest received him with towering trees and damp earth. Branches loomed overhead, massive compared to his shorter height, leaves brushing his shoulders as he passed. The scent of decay and renewal filled his lungs.
5:12.
A thought sparked.
"This is the perfect chance."
Aris would never allow it—not for someone his age. But Cyan wasn't just a child. Not anymore.
His fingers, slender, still bearing faint callouses from early training, tapped his chin as he weighed the risk.
Then he vanished.
His ten-year-old body blurred forward, movement unnaturally smooth. The ground barely felt his weight as roots and rocks passed beneath him. His stride lengthened, aura compensating where youth fell short.
"I'll make things right."
He pushed faster. Wind tore at his face, hair whipping wildly. His heart hammered—not with fear, but anticipation.
Thirty minutes in, the forest changed.
A shiver crawled down his spine.
Cyan stopped instantly.
His hand—small, but iron-steady—closed around a branch as he scanned the area. Breath silent.
That feeling…
The forest had gone still.
Danger.
He lowered himself, movements careful, efficient—learned, not instinctive. His eyes locked onto a faint sparkle in the undergrowth.
Light pulsed.
Cyan climbed, boots landing softly on a branch that creaked under his light weight.
And then he saw it.
A gate.
Reality twisted around a swirling vortex, energy warping the air like heat.
"…No way," he whispered, voice still carrying the faint softness of youth. "A dungeon gate?"
Movement.
A goblin stepped through, followed by a shadow wolf, leash tight in its grasp.
Cyan's gaze sharpened—too sharp for a child.
Red markings. Muscular build. Controlled movements.
A hobgoblin nest.
The goblin's eyes swept the clearing.
For a breathless moment, they lingered where
Cyan hid.
Nothing.
Cyan erased his presence completely.
He dropped silently, aura wrapping his smaller frame like a veil. Dust stirred—but the goblin didn't react.
"Its perception is high…"
Without hesitation, Cyan slipped into the gate.
Cold swallowed him whole.
The world twisted, pressure squeezing his smaller lungs, then released.
He stood inside a vast cavern.
Luminite crystals jutted from the walls, glowing softly, their light reflecting off eyes far too calm for
someone so young.
Water dripped in the distance. Shadows stretched.
"D-rank… or higher."
Cyan inhaled slowly.
"Uncharted territory" , he reminded himself. "And I'm alone. I Can't get reckless"
His fingers tightened.
He moved forward anyway.
END OF CHAPTER 10